


to bed

by untouchableface



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: BDSM, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, F/M, Femslash, First Time, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Sexual Content, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-01
Updated: 2019-05-01
Packaged: 2020-02-10 19:33:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18666949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untouchableface/pseuds/untouchableface
Summary: a series of short drabbles about the first time the Inquisitor takes some of her companions to bed, in one manner or another.





	to bed

**Blackwall:** Blackwall is the first person the Inquisitor takes to bed, though not for a lack of other temptations.

Up until the perfect storm that he presents, she had done a reasonable job of keeping her flirting light and playful with most of her companions, of making sure she was known for being a flirt, that it “didn’t really mean anything” beyond her expressing affection. They all saw her flirting with others, and somehow it was mostly okay.

Except, with Blackwall she could sense his grief - over what, she didn’t know. Any other man who relied so heavily on self-loathing she would have dropped in a second as a potential romantic partner. She would have heeded those warnings. But him…she wanted to protect him, to crack him open, to heal his pain. And the way he said “my lady” stirred something primal and possessive in her – for all that she was an independent woman, the leader of an army, she suddenly wanted to be _kept_.

When they make love in his rough bed of pelts in the barn, he is as sombre and reverent as she expected – covering her with kisses that taste of need, his rough hands constantly shifting and grabbing as if he were a man drowning and she was dry land. Even in his lust, he holds some part of himself back, clumsy and hesitant even as he pleasures her to orgasm before slipping inside.

Even if he frequently seduced barmaids, it was clear that it had been a long time – perhaps never – since he had been with someone that he actively cared for. He wanted her, he worshipped her body, he ached for her – that much was plainly obvious. She just hadn’t expected to wake only to find him _gone_.

 

 **Iron Bull:** When Blackwall leaves, Bull is who she turns to. She needs to _hurt_.

Bull obliges – there is a level of trust and care between them, otherwise she could not have asked him to do this – and he is just rough enough to push her to the edge of what she can take. She doesn’t allow any healers to tend to the bruises, and she saves most of her tears for after he leaves.

But it is only a short-term situation, and they both know this. Neither of them could ever be wholly vanilla, but her kinks tend more toward pure hedonism and causing pain, rather than receiving it. Only when she hits rock bottom does she need to feel pain, to make her mind stop reeling for even a second.

Bull never takes off his trousers, never lets her touch him, even though his work leaves him painfully turned on. The first two times, he respects her enough to pretend she has fallen asleep, and then he slips out.

The third time they play…

 

 **Dorian:** The handsome mage barges in unexpectedly to her chambers, carrying several bottles of Tevinter’s finest wine. Like hell he is going to allow her to continue to pine in solitude over the unwashed bear who broke her heart.

She is just coherent enough to stop him from using a nasty spell on Bull, who freezes mid-blow at the sudden interruption, ready to defend himself if needed. But no attack comes. Once Dorian processes what is actually happening, he understands instantly and offers to leave. She is just glad he somehow did not drop the wine while reaching for his staff. Magic, surely.

She cajoles them both to join her in her overly-large bed, like two writhing kittens and a tiger. If only to indulge her, they both agree. She lets Dorian heal her – but only what is visibly bleeding – and she begrudgingly puts on a linen shift, more for his sudden modesty than her own.

The wine flows between them, and two bottles in she lets the tears fall freely. The men curl protectively around either side of her, stroking her hair and planting chaste kisses on her face and along her shoulders. This time, she actually falls asleep, and does not mind when she wakes to an empty bed. Or the unexplained disappearance of the last bottle.

Later, she will be the best man at their wedding.

 

 **Varric:** Bianca’s latest betrayal hits him harder than he would admit aloud, and she finds him at the bottom of a tankard at the Herald’s Rest. They drink until close, and she casually mentions that she has at least half a bottle of passable whiskey in her quarters.

He is wise enough to say nothing about her decision to bring Blackwall – no, Thom Rainier – back to Skyhold, nor to bring up when he had the nerve to kiss her in front of the whole damn court. Likewise, she does not mention Bianca’s name.

At first, they sprawl on her bed, arms draped over knees as they pass the bottle back and forth. When she takes the second-last swig and passes the bottle back, his fingers linger on hers. Varric slurs something about her being a “good friend”, and she quips something about “mutually assured destruction.”

Their gaze holds a moment too long, and later, each would swear the other moved first.

Not unlike her night with Blackwall, there is a sense of primal need that crackles between them. But with Varric, it comes from a place of comfort and camaraderie. And pain and rage and loss and betrayal - not toward each other, but common ground nonetheless.

Their first round, her nails dig in and draw blood from his back. Her teeth pierce his lip and she tastes the sharp metallic tang as he shudders against her. Slowly, it turns to gentle caresses until they fall asleep holding each other. In the morning, Varric is the big spoon, and she wakes him with slow kisses to his palm.

 

 **Cassandra:** Emprise du Lion is at least as treacherous as the Chantry’s plot for crowning the new Divine, and the Seeker is noticeably restless even after they managed to track down Gordon the Frank, the last apostate mage they needed to worry about finding.

She is tired of her tentmate’s tossing and turning, whether from the cold, her many responsibilities, or some combination thereof. “Cass…” she hisses in the dark.

Cassandra stills, much like a nug spotted by a deepstalker. “Yes, Inquisitor?”

“C'mere.” As much a request as an order, she moves quickly before Cassandra can object. “I read somewhere that if two people share their bedrolls, it’s a better way to regenerate body heat. And it’s freezing here.”

Aside from a rare hug, this is the closest the two women have ever been, their bedrolls now combined together like a cocoon. Even so, she is gentle and slow, in case Cassandra spooks like an untrained mabari pup. She would never force, never presume… but her arm drapes over Cassandra’s prone form in the dark and the fierce warrior woman does not pull away. If anything, she slowly relaxes into her embrace.

The physical contact between them is languid and sensual, even over their sleeping tunics. She nuzzles into Cassandra’s shoulder. “Admittedly, Varric would be warmer than I am, but I hope this is good enough.”

“You smell much better than the dwarf,” Cassandra agrees, as she takes the Inquisitor’s hand in her own. Their shared warmth is enough to calm them both, and they continue this unspoken arrangement together every night until returning home to Skyhold.


End file.
